


Tumblr Whump

by Daydreamer5187



Series: What We Can Never Understand [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Caring Washington, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hostage Situations, One Shot Collection, Poisoning, Presumed Dead, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt, Washingdad, Whump, prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-11-04 06:11:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17893004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamer5187/pseuds/Daydreamer5187
Summary: A collection of whumpy one-shots I've written for Tumblr requests featuring Washingdad pretty much exclusively.In today's episode of angst:After hours upon hours and days upon days of relentless battle, Washington's forces hit a strike of luck; a British aide-de-camp is captured. It's what the army needs. Until, that is, General Washington receives a message with very specific details.An aide for an aide.They have Alexander Hamilton.





	1. sickfic

**Author's Note:**

> All the chapters in this collection will be shortish, (in comparison with the chapters from my main story,) as they are requests I receive on Tumblr for various tropes. 
> 
>  
> 
> For more stores like this [come check me out on Tumblr.](https://accidentally-a-writer.tumblr.com)

When the first flowers of spring blossomed George Washington heaved a sigh of relief. They’d made it through another winter. 

It was always such a worrying time, instead of just starvation and infection they had hypothermia and freezing to death to worry about for the soldiers. Losing men to the winter was inevitable, there was no way they could protect them all from the cold. As much as George hated this, he accepted it. Hamilton did feel the guilt though, to such an extent that Washington had pulled him aside one night and the two talked well into the morning. 

But now, now that the flowers were finally blooming and the outside temperatures were now bearable during the day, they were fine. So Washington let relief wash over him, and let that weight leave his shoulders. 

Until Hamilton got sick. 

It started small, it always starts small.

He coughed, just once, and shattered the silence that loomed in the office. George looked up from his parchment, one eyebrow furrowed in concern. It didn’t seem like Hamilton had noticed, his quill never stopping its movement, so Washington let it go and continued his work. 

The next day it happened again but the coughing was a recurrence throughout the day. This time Washington would not let it go. 

“Are you quite alright, Lieutenant?” 

Hamilton’s head snapped up from his work and he gave a soundless nod. He took a sip of his water before replying to the general properly, “I’m fine, Your Excellency. My throat is just a bit dry is all.” The boy smiled, and it was enough for Washington to foolishly believe him. 

He should have known that things like this can go from ‘quite alright’ to ‘deadly’ in a matter of days. And it did. 

The next morning Washington knew he had made a horrible mistake in not questioning his aide further that previous night. 

Alexander’s cheeks were flushed and sweat lined his brow, his eyes had darkened overnight and he looked pale and shaky. Washington was immediately alarmed at the sight, having seen far too many men succumb to illness just like Alexander was displaying.

“Son, you’re not well. You may have the day to rest,” the commander offered, hoping desperately Hamilton would accept. 

“I’m not your son.” Even the small (somewhat familiar) exclamation sent the boy into a fit of coughing. He took great gasping breaths, his cheeks reddening further in embarrassment as he struggled to collect himself. Once he had regained his speech he continued, “I don’t need to speak to do my duty, sir.” 

Knowing Hamilton far too well to even try to argue, Washington relented. Though for the rest of the day he found it hard to concentrate on anything besides his young aide-de-camp.

Alexander worsened by the hour, his coughing becoming more and more persistent and more and more violent as the day went on. 

Every so often, he would take his handkerchief and wipe his brow of sweat. Eventually, this too became more frequent; Washington had gifted that handkerchief to him, in celebration of his birthday. He hated seeing the boy suffer so, and thus Washington broke. 

“I must insist, Hamilton, that you desist your work this instance and retire to bed. You are obviously unwell.” 

“It will pass, Your Excellency.” 

“Not if you don’t rest it won’t.” 

“But there is so much work to be done…” 

“You’re no use to me dead, Lieutenant. Please, for my sake, retire.” 

Alexander looked up at him with a child’s eyes, searching and innocent. George met the gaze with as reassuring an expression as he could muster. Hamilton trusted him, he knew this as a fact, he could only hope that the boy would trust him with his health as well as his orders. Alexander slowly nodded and capped his inkwell. Washington thanked the heavens. He’d half a mind to call for the doctor, his personal one of course, and if Alexander needed any medicine George would, of course, cover it himself. 

The act of standing turned out to be too strenuous an action for Hamilton’s body, and the boy launched into one of his more violent fits. He had to support his entire weight against his desk as he held the handkerchief to his mouth. He couldn’t regain his breath, the coughing just kept coming and coming and _he couldn’t breathe._

Worry laced through Washington like poisoned wine, the boy wasn’t stopping. He was trying to, he took gasping breaths, and this time Washington could hear something unmistakably _wet_ in his breathing. It was this alone that had the general shooting from his seat and making his way to Hamilton’s desk. 

Alexander was beginning to see stars, his brain starved of oxygen for too long. The general’s firm grip on his arm and back barely registered. Pulling the handkerchief back from his mouth Alexander felt his blood to turn to ice. 

Washington noticed at the same time his aide did and felt the same overwhelming panic as the boy. 

Blood. There was blood splattered against the cotton, bright and deep and scarily _final._

“I’m calling the doctor,” George announced, his eyes unable to tear away from the splatters of blood. He raced away, yelling for a servant to fetch the doctor to Hamilton’s quarters immediately, it was a medical emergency. 

Whatever this was, it was fast and it was aggressive. Hamilton feared he would spread it to the general. 

So when Washington took his arm and gently tried to lead him towards his chambers Alexander pushed him away with as much strength as he could. (It wasn’t much, it hardly would have moved the general if it hadn't startled him.) 

“We need to get you to your bed, son.” Washington tried to placate him, only slightly relieved that the boy’s horrible coughing had finally subsided. 

Hamilton shook his head firmly ‘no.’ The image of his mother catching ill was flashing in his mind and he couldn’t bear for that to happen again. He’d woken up and she’d been dead and- 

His legs gave out. 

Washington let out an alarmed shout and caught the boy, slowly lowering them both to the ground. He patted Hamilton’s cheeks lightly, growing more concerned at the unnatural heat coming from them. The aide was barely there anymore, his eyes were glazed and he couldn’t speak.

Strengthening his resolve Washington rearranged the child’s limbs and hefted him up into his arms as he had with Jack and Patty when they were ill as children. He knew for certain now that Alexander was delirious for he clung to the general with all his might. 

He couldn’t lose this boy, he couldn’t lose another child. 

The general carried Alexander all the way to his chambers, where he gently laid him down on top the sheets and began to strip away his uniform. A servant offered to relieve him of the duty, but Washington would not allow it. He instead ordered the boy to fetch a basin of water and an abundance of clean rags. 

The other servant returned shortly with the doctor, panting at the exertion of running there and back. The doctor ignored them both and set to examining his patient; Washington knew what he would say far before he said it, he’d gone through this scenario before.

“I’m sorry, there’s not much I can do if he is already this far along. It was very aggressive, yes?” 

Washington nodded, his arms crossed in front of him and his face bent in worry. 

The doctor nodded, “I thought as much. Men have been coming to the healing tent with this strain, it is fast working and does not take to my medicines well.” The statement sent another shard of panic through the general’s gut. 

_There was nothing they could do, those men died._

He knew this is what the doctor meant, but he couldn’t accept this as Alexander’s fate. 

“There’s nothing you can give him that might help,” he asked desperately. The doctor’s hesitance was enough of an answer for Washington.

The doctor watched as the general crossed to the boy’s bedside and sat heavily. The whole camp knew that Lieutenant Hamilton and General Washington were closer than aides-de-camp and their superiors usually were. Slowly, the doctor removed a bottle of liquid from his bag. 

“If the pain becomes too terrible for him,” the doctor began slowly, watching the last shard of hope shatter from Washington’s face, “you may give him three teaspoons of this, no more than three hours apart.” 

Washington took the bottle heavily, placing it on the stand beside the bed. 

“He is drowning in his own blood,” the doctor continued, “please have someone sit by him and turn him onto his side when he begins to cough again... so that he can spit the blood into a basin. If he can survive the night he may recover, but he can’t do that if he chokes on his own blood.” 

“I’ll do it.” Washington had never been more certain in anything than he was in that statement. The doctor hesitated. 

“I wouldn’t, Your Excellency, I do not know if this illness is contagious.” 

“I don’t _care,_ I said I’ll do it.” The general’s voice broke, and the doctor could do naught but nod. 

The doctor packed his things, but before he left he stopped at the doorframe and turned back to face the general, who was absently carding his fingers through the boy’s sticky hair. This illness could get incredibly painful, and if the outtake of blood became too much by dawn there was one last thing the general could do to help him. 

“General Washington,” Washington looked up, the doctor checked no one would overhear him, “this disease ravages the muscles, it can become very painful. If he is exhaling more blood than he can recover from by sunrise… six teaspoons of that mixture will let him sleep.” 

Washington’s eyes widened as the implications of the statement dawned on him, but he nodded nonetheless. 

The general didn’t leave Hamilton’s side all night. He attended the aide in an almost desperate fashion, wishing and praying and begging for the boy to recover, to _stop spitting blood please Alexander just try…_

Through the night Alexander’s face would scrunch in pain and his shaking would increase, and Washington would rub his back and card his fingers through his hair. Or Alexander would merely stop moving completely, his breathing ragged but there. Washington took these moments as opportunities to wipe the boy’s brow and hold him. 

The worst, however, was as the doctor predicted; when Alexander would begin to cough violently and blood would pour from his lips, and he would keen in pain as the coughing took its toll on his body. In these moments, when Washington felt the most helpless, he would glance at the bottle of medicine the doctor had given him. He’d already given Alexander his dose an hour ago, it hadn’t helped for long. 

Yet, no matter how much it pained him to see the boy so, he could not bear to act on the doctor’s advice. If he did then he would surely follow. 

So the general sat by the bedside, and stroked the boy’s hair, and begged, and prayed, and eventually exhausted himself to the point that he had no more energy to do anything but hope and hold the boy. 

All night the general listened to the slow breathing of his charge, how it rattled in his chest and came out as small gasps. The general learned to be soothed by the sound, because at least the breathing was there. 

But just as the sun began to rise, it wasn’t. 

Washington didn’t know if it was exhaustion or denial that prevented him from noticing at first, but when he did he found the energy to sob.


	2. poisoned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton drinks a poisoned wine, and it's up to George to negotiate with (beg) the enemy to secure the antidote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, hello, I decided to post another of my ficlets onto this site, but instead of creating a whole new story for it I thought, "Why not just make the original one a collection?" And that is what it is now.

“Sir?” Washington looked up from his supper at the uncharacteristically shaky voice of his aide. Worry furrowed his brow as he watched the boy sway. 

Then, he collapsed. 

“Hamilton!” The general rushed from his place at the table, kneeling next to the fallen boy. He was convulsing and unresponsive to Washington’s gentle but incessant tapping against his cheek. “Someone get help.” George looked around at the callous and unmoving forms of their hosts and servants. “What are you doing? Get help!” 

The lord of the manor wiped his mouth casually, regarding Hamilton as if he were mildly interesting and not _dying._

“Interesting,” he mused, much to Washington’s frustration. “This, I had not expected…” 

“What the Hell are you talking about? He needs help!” 

And it suddenly dawned on Washington. He’d seen this before, the convulsing, and the sweating and- the wine, spreading around Alexander like it were blood. 

“Oh my God,” Washington whispered, his voice sounding disbelieving and almost devastated. “You’ve poisoned him.” 

“Not exactly.” A new voice rang from the corner of the room, startling Washington, who protectively tightened his grip on Alexander. “He was merely paid to play host, quite handsomely might I add, and the boy was not our intended target. Tell me Washington, does he make a habit of switching your wineglass with his own?” 

Washington closed his eyes; the glass was intended for him. That single fact devastated the general, not because someone had tried to kill him, but because Alexander was suffering for it. He finally tore his eyes away from the still seizing form of Hamilton to look at the new addition to the dinner party. 

Redcoat, about the same age as Washington, handsome, dangerous, psychotic. He was enjoying this. 

“I mean, if you ever doubted his loyalty, you can now be assured that he would truly _die for you,”_ he taunted with a smirk. The lord, who Washington had foolishly trusted, stood and left them to their business. 

“What comes now? Are you going to kill me too?” 

“Oh Heavens no, that’d be no fun at all.” The man removed his gloves and pistol, handing them to the servant waiting for his orders. “The game’s just begun.” 

“This isn’t a game, he’s _dying._ ” Washington hated how his voice broke. It was only more leverage for their use. 

“Yes, he is, and I’m sure you know _exactly_ how. You’ve seen this poison work before, it can take _days_ Washington, and it is a slow and painful process.”

“Who are you? What do you want?!” 

The man only smirked, moving around Washington and sitting at Alexander’s place at the table. Casually, he began to eat what Alexander had left before collapsing. Washington gaped at the obvious madman, his thoughts whirling rapidly in his mind. 

“It’s Belladonna, general,” the man reported, still sounding amused. “And you won’t find any antidote for miles, by the time you actually find a way out of here, and get back with the antidote, your boy will be cold.” 

Washington glared at him, wishing for his pistol so he could shoot the man dead right here. Hamilton began to still, and for a second Washington panicked. However, Hamilton’s heart was still beating, far too fast, but it was beating. 

“It’s quite potent, and with how he reacted with it, I’d say six, maybe seven hours before his heart stops. He’s doing remarkably well. You should be proud.” 

“Enough of these games,” Washington hissed, “what do you want?” 

The man rolled his eyes and went back to his (Hamilton’s) meal. “Yes, yes, yes, you want answers.” 

“Is that what you want too? Information?” 

“Smart boy.” The man sounded genuinely impressed, but in such a way that it was like he was talking to a dog and not a person. “It’s certainly interesting to see… Our original plan was for you to take the poison, we could have our fun with your pretty-boy aide, take whatever information he would give to make it stop, and we’ll have killed two birds with one stone. But I like this better, don’t you?” 

“He’s dying.”

“Yes, but you can save him.” The man laughed at Washington’s hopeful expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a vial of black liquid. “It looks quite sinister, but it is in fact the only thing that can help the boy.” The redcoat completely shifted his demeanour, suddenly completely professional. “Now, come sit with me, and let’s discuss the matter at hand.” 

Washington reluctantly did as he was told, loathe to leave Alexander on the floor as he was. 

“What’s your name,” the general asked, stiffly lowering himself into a dinner chair. His eyes kept wandering back to the prone form sprawled on the floor. 

“Smith,” the man answered, as if he were truly at a dinner party. “I always thought a first impression should be as strong as your character, did I make a strong first impression, George?” 

Washington refused to answer. 

“I wasn’t asking out of jest,” Smith continued, “I truly want to know; does he make a habit of switching your wineglasses?” 

“Sometimes,” Washington ground out, his fist clenched in front of him on the table. “He knows I don’t like him doing it.” 

“With good reason,” Smith absently cast his gaze towards the boy, smiling at his form. “I can get someone to clean him up if you wish.” 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch him. You’ve done enough.” 

“The boy did it to himself. Now, what would you be willing to sacrifice to save him?” 

Smith watched Washington for his reaction. The British general was skilled in the art of reading into people’s unspoken responses rather than their spoken ones. And Washington’s response was that he would do _anything_ that they asked. 

“I do not wish for my aide-de-camp to be murdered, I’m willing to do what I must in order to make sure he stays alive.” 

“That isn’t an answer, general,” Smith chastised. “I expect an answer when I talk to you. You aren’t in control here, _I am,_ and I have rules.” He smiled a Cheshire Cat smile. “Firstly, you obey me, unquestionably. Second, when I ask you a question you tell me the truth, the full truth, immediately. Thirdly, know that that boy is now our property, and what we do with him is our choice; not yours. So, what are you willing to do to make sure we don’t decide to let him die?” 

Washington promptly closed his mouth, not willing to risk making this man angry enough that he’d do something drastic. 

“Alright.” Smith slammed his cutlery against the table, Washington jumped at the hard sound. “If you won’t answer me, I suppose we’re done here. Have fun watching the whelp die.” 

Before Washington got his first plea past his lips Smith was up and gone, locking the door from the outside. Information may have something to do with this entire scheme but it certainly wasn’t the only reason. Smith enjoyed toying with them, he liked the control, and he had drastic mood swings very quickly; this made him extremely dangerous.

Alexander groaned, refocusing the general onto what was important. He knelt next to him as he began to retch and convulse. Washington quickly turned him onto his side, just in time for Hamilton to violently get sick. 

“That’s it Alexander, that’s it, get it out.” The general carded his fingers through his aide’s hair, hating how Alexander moaned painfully.

There were very few people who had earned the hatred of George Washington; the fiends that had poisoned Hamilton were on that list. 

Suddenly, like new life had been breathed into the boy, Alexander heaved a gasp. His eyes shot open, dilated beyond healthy and unseeing. 

“We have to go, we have to leave,” he gasped. 

“What? Alexander, it’s okay, you need to calm down.” 

“No! Don’t you see the water? The water is everywhere, it’s filling up the room and the door and we’re going to drown!” 

Washington looked around in confusion, “Alexander there’s no water!” 

“Don’t you see it? We must go, or we will surely die!” 

Washington grasped his arm, causing Hamilton to let out a shrill scream and scramble backwards until his back hit the wall. He attacked his arms trying to fling imaginary insects away from his body. 

“What Hell is this?” Hamilton cried, scratching at his skin. “Where did the spiders come from? How have they invaded my skin?” 

It was at that moment Washington remembered that Belladonna causes vivid and extremely distressing hallucinations. Cursing himself for not realizing sooner the general gently knelt next to Alexander, taking his hands in his own as gently as possible. He held them together, trying not to look at the bloody scratches Hamilton had left on his own skin. 

“Son, I need you to look at me, yes?” The general murmured into his ear, pulling the aide a bit closer into his chest. Alexander did so, his eyes going wide and his breathing picking up in fear. “I know it’s scary, and I know you’re confused, but you just have to tell yourself it’s not real, okay?” 

He got no response, but he felt Hamilton try and calm his breathing. The shaking returned, much to George’s dismay, but did not escalate into full convulsions. Yet. He continued to get sick, and occasionally spasmed with pain. 

Washington held Alexander close for nearly an hour, his inner thoughts in turmoil. It was awful, seeing Alexander like this. He cared for the boy, he cared far more than he ever thought was possible. 

So seeing him in this state was like driving a dagger through Washington’s heart. He was helpless to do anything except watch as the boy who he loved like a son die, all because he was too loyal for his own good. 

“I’ll do anything you want,” Washington finally begged, screaming at no where in particular, hoping someone would hear him. “Please come back, I’ll do whatever you want! _Just help him.”_

The door finally opened and Smith entered with a self-satisfied grin plastered on his face. 

“Come here Washington,” he ordered, pointing to a chair at the table. “Sit down and do exactly as I say, and the antidote is yours.” 

Washington did as he was told immediately, only pausing to place a light kiss on the top of Alexander’s hair. The boy was flickering in and out of consciousness, Washington left him on the ground, making him as comfortable as he could. 

Smith watched him cross the room, his crocodile grin never fading. Washington sat in the allotted chair tensely, never taking his eyes off the enemy. The British general’s fingers slithered over Washington’s shoulders, squeezing them lightly before retracting. A quill and a parchment were produced, both offered to Washington without a glance. 

George stared at the tools blankly, too careful to ask what he was to do with them. Luckily, his question was answered for him. 

“Write down the name of the most important spies in the British army, and where they are stationed. Then I want where you keep your supplies and ammunition hideaways and trading routes.” 

Washington froze. He couldn’t give them that information, no matter how much he wanted to, that would effectively kill hundreds of men and lose multiple battles, if not the war, for the revolutionaries. 

“Are you hesitating, General Washington?” Smith mocked him, “Does the boy not mean as much as you said he did? What happened to ‘doing anything we wanted,’ hm?” 

“I ca- I can’t tell you what you want to know…” George’s voice shook as he spoke, knowing the response would not bode well for either Hamilton or him. 

Smith’s whole demeanour changed, sending a tendril of fear through George. 

“Oh, you can’t, eh? Perhaps I was right then, maybe the bastard doesn’t mean as much as you let on. Let’s just finish this now then, shall we?” 

George didn’t have time to move before the pistol was out and pointed at Hamilton’s prone form. 

“No!” 

The gun was cocked. “This is the more humane death anyhow, Washington. You should be glad, and since you’re not willing to give me what I want…” 

“Please!” Washington was out of his seat, making a mad grab for the gun in Smith’s grip. “I’ll tell you whatever you want, just don’t kill him.” 

Smith backed off, putting the gun on the table languidly. He regarded Washington carefully and smiled. “You just broke two of our rules, and I do believe I warned you what the consequence of the third would be.” 

Washington felt tears flush his eyes, violently and suddenly, just like Alexander’s convulsions. 

“I’m begging you…” he whispered desperately. 

“I know,” Smith replied. He removed the antidote from his uniform and promptly smashed it to the ground. 

Washington screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love to you all, and I'm... sorry?


	3. reported dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens and Lafayette have the difficult task of reporting to General Washington that Alexander Hamilton was shot and killed during their mission.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know, I'm a horrible person because this is still not a "Look At Where We Started" update, but these Tumblr fics are so much fun to write!!! If you want to check out my Tumblr, [click here.](https://accidentally-a-writer.tumblr.com/) We have a lot of fun, these ficlets are posted on there before here, and you can request things directly through my asks. :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this new chapter!

Laurens and Lafayette winced as another glass broke in the next room. And another. And another. 

Each shatter was accompanied by a hoarse shout from General Washington. 

They’d returned from a mission, burning a supplier of British ammunition, it was a success and incredibly important to the war. They’d returned from the mission, however, without Alexander Hamilton. 

Missions like that are notoriously dangerous, and at first Washington had refused to let Hamilton accompany them. Not taking ‘no’ for an answer, Alexander had finally gotten the general to cave and allow him on the mission. 

Laurens had heard the exchange from the hallway. 

_“I cannot allow you to be killed, Alexander.”_

_“And I cannot sit behind a desk passively, not while my closest friends risk their lives.”_

_“What good are you to me dead?”_

_“Please, Your Excellency, allow me this mission. I’ve never failed you yet, have I? Trust me not to fail to return to you.”_

Washington never called Hamilton ‘Alexander’ when others were around, it led Laurens to believe that perhaps the pair were closer than originally thought. (And they seemed pretty close as it was.) 

Another cry, filled with grief. 

The mission had gone to plan, but the commotion the fire caused was not easily lost to the forces, and the group had quickly been caught and pursued. 

A gun went off and-

_“Alexander!” Laurens felt the scream tear its way out of his throat, desperate and raw. He watched as his friend slid off his horse bonelessly, the momentum of the galloping horse causing the soldier to roll a few feet before stilling._

_Laurens was about to turn around and retrieve his friend when he felt Lafayette’s firm grip on his arm. His eyes shone with tears also but he shook his head, casting one last glance at his friend’s prone form (body)._

_“We can’t. We have to go.” Laurens had wanted to argue but deflated as Lafayette choked back a sob and urged them on, “We can’t do anything for him now.”_

They’d made it back to the camp without further fuss. Apparently the British were fine with a blood sacrifice of one for their troubles. 

Laurens remembered tumbling off his horse, comrades flocking around him, all asking questions, and there were too many questions and too much movement and just _too much._

Lafayette had taken control, as only Lafayette could, and eventually he was left alone. Laurens had yet to utter a word nor move from the place he’d dismounted from. He stared blankly at Lafayette, trying to convey all the emotions he was feeling in a single look. 

Lafayette understood, and the two embraced, mourning what they’d lost and wondering why it wasn’t them that took the bullet. 

Laurens had been bleeding, some cut or other he got in the chase, it was nothing. It was nothing compared to Alexander, who might not have died right away, who probably felt the ground move with his friends’ betrayal and abandonment as he slowly bled out. 

It was nothing, but Gilbert took him to the infirmary tent nonetheless. He promised that Laurens could come back to the general’s quarters that night, and sleep in his own bed. 

Laurens suddenly pitied Lafayette far worse than he pitied his situation, for Lafayette was now tasked with telling Washington his aide had been killed. _Alexander_ had been killed. 

That led them here, hours later, listening to the general’s grief through a stone wall. When Lafayette had told him there was almost no reaction, he’d nodded, expressed condolences, and excused himself to his study. 

Both men knew this was an act for their benefit, ever the stoic and in-control general, George Washington; the general who was now screaming within the confines of his study, raging against a god that would take another child from him. 

“Come,” Lafayette murmured in French, too tired to use English today, “let us give him his privacy.” 

Laurens nodded his assent, and together they left the general to his grief. 

Out in the cool of the nighttime air Laurens allowed himself a moment. Why should he get this moment of calm and peace when all of Alexander’s moments were taken from him? On what earth was that possibly fair? 

Hamilton had once told him he was living on borrowed time, that by all means he should have died many years ago. Laurens laughed and told him to drink more, and make the best of his time in the present. He didn’t think it would be depleted so soon after. 

…

George Washington looked wretched the morning after he received the news. His office was in ruins, his alcohol nearly gone, his knuckles cut and bruised, and his throat raw from his shouting. 

It was nothing compared to what he felt in his chest. 

It was like a great pressure had settled itself on his heart, and it kept pushing and pushing and wouldn’t stop because he was _gone_. Hamilton was _dead._ That pressure would stay there forever, until his heart inevitably began to shatter with the weight of it all. 

This was his fault. He’d let the boy go, he’d known how dangerous it was, and had had a gut instinct to put his foot to the ground and tell him **no.**

But he didn’t and now look what’s happened. 

He could not even send men to find his body, because it was too close to British lines, and he would not risk any more good men. 

Hamilton hated the cold, and now he can never be warm again. 

Washington sighed, and took his first step away from the fireplace towards the door. The glass crunched beneath the sole of his shoe, but he didn’t care about a hole in the sole right now. (He might not be able to care about much for a while, not until he could find some kind of numbness again.) 

As he exited the building into the commotion of the camp an eerie stillness fell. Everyone around him faltered for a moment, their words dying on their lips. They were waiting for some kind of reaction from him, searching for signs of his grief. That was not in line with his general persona so they found none. 

Everyone went back to work and Washington carried on with his walk. He pretended he did not hear the whispers, did not notice the stares of his men. 

_They were close, he must be upset_

_He doesn’t look upset_

_Hamilton was a bastard you know, I wonder if he was the general’s bastard_

_Would certainly explain some things._

He’d heard such whisperings before, jealous men who hated the attention he gave Alexander because it was not them. When he was alive, Alexander had always thought that that was an insult of the most foul of nature; it was not even that his parentage had been revealed that upset the boy, it was that they linked _Washington_ to it. Like having Alexander as a son would be an insult. 

There was a disturbance at the edge of the camp, with a few of the guards. Someone was trying to get through. 

Something urged Washington to run towards them with all his might. And God, was he so glad he did. 

“Stop!” He roared, pushing past the guards who were aiming their pistols at the newcomer. He wasn’t a newcomer at all. “It’s Lieutenant Hamilton.” 

In any other circumstance the gasps and waves sent off by a single sentence would have been comedic. 

The boy let out a relieved sigh that sounded a bit like a sob and let his knees collapse. Washington grabbed him before he hit the ground. A lump had formed in his own throat as he surveyed the boy’s body. 

He was covered in dirt and blood and his own sweat and his fingers and lips had a slight blue tinge to them. _Dear God, he’s walked all night._

__

Hamilton was clinging to Washington’s uniform, tears making their way down his face as he accepted that he had made it. He was safe. 

__

Washington wasted no more time, he scooped his aide effortlessly into his arms and hurried towards his quarters.

__

Hamilton’s gunshot wound was still oozing blood.

__

It was located just left of his neck, lodged into his collarbone like some dammed miracle. A few inches further to the right and Washington knew they would have truly lost him. 

__

Someone shouted that they were getting a medic, it faded into the white noise around this little bubble Washington had constructed around him and his aide.

__

He reached Alexander’s quarters, quick to start stripping Hamilton of his freezing clothes and tossing them to the side, examining the injury with trepidation. It was angry and red and inflamed, it was infected.

__

He placed the boy gently on the bed, covering him with the softest sheets he could find. 

__

“Get the fire started, now!” The servant boy was quick to follow his instructions without a word, he’d been clearing Washington’s study of the glass when he heard the shouts. 

__

Washington took off his jacket and wrapped it around his boy’s shoulders, if the infection didn’t take him then the cold certainly could. 

__

Hamilton was still clinging to him, and this time Washington reciprocated. He clutched Hamilton close to his chest, and the boy broke down.

__

“I wa-was s-s-so s-scared,” Alexander stuttered, his entire form beginning to shiver as Washington’s heat began to warm his body up. 

__

“You’re okay, you did so well, son. You did so well.” Washington felt his own tears spring to his eyes as Hamilton sobbed. He’d thought he’d lost him, and yet he was here.

__

The medic appeared at the scene, his eyes sympathetic as he watched the pair. Alexander noticed the medic and felt his cheeks flush, despite his extreme cold. He hardly had the energy to move though, so he simply buried his face into Washington’s shirt again. 

__

Washington maneuvered them so the medic could examine Hamilton’s wound, his fears confirmed when he made the diagnosis. 

__

“The infection might not be too deep yet, we might still be able to do something for it.” He announced, shooting Washington a grave look. “You may want to stay where you are, General, this will be painful for him.” 

__

Washington nodded, he was positioned so Alexander was essentially in his lap, with his knees on either side of the boy. He took both of Hamilton’s hands in his own and with the other hand slipped the piece of leather the doctor had given him between his aide’s teeth. 

__

The doctor did his work and Alexander _screamed._

__

Somehow, Washington had gotten to gently carding one of his hands through the boy’s hair, whispering assurances into his ear, and praying to God that he wouldn’t take the boy in his arms.

__

It felt like his soul was dying though, having to hold Alexander down as someone hurt him. It felt worse when the boy suddenly lost all movement and went completely limp. 

__

Washington knew that those screams were going to haunt his dreams for the rest of his life. 

__

“He’s just fallen unconscious due to the pain,” the doctor explained calmly, seeing the general’s panicking expression, “it is probably for the best. He won’t have to feel the stitches.” 

__

Washington nodded, clutching the limp form to his chest a bit tighter. (For body warmth, he would justify to himself later.) 

__

The doctor finished his work, and smiled. 

__

“He’ll live.” 

__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aRe yOU hApPY nOw?!? hE's aLiVE 
> 
> lmao I'm kidding, I couldn't bear to kill Hamilton again. Poor boyo can't catch a break.  
> Thank you so much for reading this collection, your support means so much to me. And I promise, I'll have the update out for LAWWS soon. I love you all so much!


	4. prisoner exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Revolutionary forces and the British have been in battle for days on end now, both are becoming weary. Like a gift from God, the opposing forces' aide-de-camp is wounded during battle and captured.   
> It seemed like the stroke of luck the Americans needed, until General George Washington received a message from the British forces. 
> 
> An aide for an aide 
> 
> They had Alexander Hamilton.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANOTHER ONE; WHAT?! 
> 
> I know, I know, but I have a lot of them in my computer and want to share them with the world. :D Plus, writers block for LAWWS is hitting me like a b i t c h 
> 
> but! I'm almost done my prompt list for Tumblr, which means I'll be able to focus back on here very soon. 
> 
> Support me on Tumblr maybe? ;D 
> 
> [Check me out here!](https://accidentally-a-writer.tumblr.com/post/184055540584/ko-fi-page)

Washington stared into the eyes Alexander Hamilton and felt his heart crack. 

The boy stood calmly, his hands raised in surrender and facial expression perfectly schooled into a cool impasse. Everything about his countenance displayed that he was unaffected by the pistol being jammed into his head, but Washington knew better. Alexander was terrified. 

They’d been in battle for four days, little progress being made by either side. Their only fortune had been that few of his men had been wounded and that on the third day of battles the opposing general’s aide-de-camp had been wounded and captured on the battlefield. 

Washington knew that the war had descended into guerrilla warfare at this point, he knew that the British were going to want retribution. He should have known to keep his ex-aide-de-camp close. 

Hamilton had quit his staff only a month ago, in favour of being on the battlefield instead. The British had heard of him, evidently, but not known of his resignation. After capturing the opposition’s aide they fought for one more day before both forces pulled back. It was only later that Lafayette had rushed into Washington’s tent, babbling about how they couldn’t find Hamilton anywhere. 

Washington was immediately up and helping them scour the battlefield for any sign of the boy (or a body, but he had pushed that possibility away almost immediately). 

Lafayette had been with him when the dirty and dishevelled redcoat had made his way out of the bushes towards them. Lafayette’s gun was immediately raised and aimed as he shouted orders in French to the boy. 

He was just a messenger, and he came with a message for General Washington. Washington took it, his eyes scanning the letter rapidly.

Washington’s worst fear had been confirmed; the British had Alexander Hamilton in their clutches. The aide-de-camp of a high-ranking army official was a valuable hostage, as they were usually depended on by their employer, and had information about the war a regular soldier wouldn’t. 

But Alexander wasn’t his aide, not anymore. Washington had no doubt in his mind that if this piece of information was learned Alexander would be killed on the spot. 

_An aide for an aide,_ as the letter proposed. He agreed and sent the messenger away.

So there they were the next morning, staring at each other from opposite sides of an untouched clearing in the middle of the dense forest. 

Washington had brought Lafayette, his (current) aide Laurens, Aaron Burr, and a few foot soldiers. The numbers on the other side were much the same, to the general’s relief. 

But there were not holding their captive by gunpoint. 

Laurens and Lafayette gave an enraged shout, restrained only by Burr’s gentle placating (and his physically holding them back). If Washington was honest, he wanted to do exactly the same thing. 

The British general, Washington didn’t know his name, smirked and tilted his head towards Washington, beckoning him forward. Furrowing his brow in confusion, Washington complied. 

He and the general met about halfway across the field. Both sides were tense against their guns but dared not aim for fear of hitting their own general. 

“I’ve adhered to the terms of this barbaric exchange of yours,” Washington said in lieu of a greeting. “I’ve young Mr.Holt, you have my-”

“Former aide?” The general smirked at the quick flash of shock on Washington’s face. “Yes, we realized too late that no aide of yours would be on the battlefield. You’re far too protective of them.” 

“He’s just a boy,” Washington grit out, his fist involuntarily clenching at his side. “You are regaining your aide nevertheless, a deal is a deal.” 

“Well it begs the question; why would George Washington agree to this trade if he had nothing to gain from it but a foot soldier?” The general raked his eyes up and down Washington’s form like a vulture. “You bear no resemblance to the boy, so he isn’t a bastard of yours, he holds no rank nor property, unlike _le Marquis de Lafayette._ ” The general’s gaze found Lafayette and Washington felt his rage burn a bit stronger. 

“ _Enough._ ” 

“Touchy, touchy, General Washington.” 

“You have me at a disadvantage.” 

“I’ve you at several,” he gloated. “My name would not be the most forefront concern if I were you.”

“Give me Officer Hamilton, _now._ ” It was George’s turn to smirk as his adversary took an unconscious step back. He was _George Washington_ for a reason. 

The general regained himself and his taunting smirk. “How much is he worth to you?” 

“We had a deal…”

“Yes, an aide for an aide, but I’m not giving you an _aide_ , am I?” Frustrated, Washington’s hand was shooting for his pistol before he could think to stop himself. Washington could hear the men on both sides frantically doing the same, but the man opposite him didn’t move. “Careful Washington, make sure you take a long look at that boy if you’re going to do that, he’ll have a bullet in his skull shortly after.” 

Grinding his teeth together Washington surrendered his hands, spreading his palms face up and away from the pistol. His men slowly lowered their own weapons. 

“Release Mr.Hamilton, and I release Mr.Holt. I’m sure even the British have honour, don’t they?” 

“More than a band of traitors does, I suppose. But what if I refuse, hm?” Washington felt his blood freeze. “What if I decide I’d rather not let him go?” 

Forcing himself to keep an even voice George replied, “then I order my men to shoot your aide-de-camp.” 

“A shame, yes, he does good work for me, but I think I can live with that.” 

“What game are you playing,” Washington hissed, his fist clenching and unclenching once more. 

“I wanted to see the great George Washington squirm, and you have satisfied me. I knew, when we discovered young Mr.Hamilton was no longer your aide and yet you still agreed to the trade that you cared for him. The extent of that care however, I could not predict. Very interesting, General Washington…” 

Washington said nothing, not willing to disagree and not willing to give this man any more leverage. 

“But I suppose the game is up.” The general smiled, it unsettled Washington; something else was afoot, something he felt with trepidation. 

Lazily, he waved for the man to bring Hamilton towards them. Washington, in turn, gave the signal that his man may release Holt. Hamilton reached the pair first. He was close enough that Washington could reach out and touch him. 

Roughly the general ripped Washington’s former aide from his underling’s grasp. Hamilton cried out at the rough handling, and once again Washington felt his heart crack. His adversary unsheathed his dagger, languidly placing it at Alexander’s throat.

“There’s no need for that,” George placated, outstretching his hands, behind him his men shifted nervously. “Your man will be joining us in but a few moments. I promise he has not been harmed by my men, and his wounds were dressed back at my camp.” Holt reached the group, to Washington’s relief. “See? Now please, release Officer Hamilton.” 

Washington watched as the general looked his aide up and down, before moving his mouth next to Hamilton’s ear and beginning to whisper something. Alexander’s eyes widened.

“Your Excellency-!” The sound of gunfire filled the clearing and the world exploded into chaos. 

Holt’s body collapsed next to Washington, and his blood splattered both him and Hamilton. Both of the generals’ men were shouting, and some were firing, and Washington hadn’t even drawn his pistol yet. 

Hamilton elbowed the general and twisted in his captor’s grip, twisting his arm to an unnatural angle until he heard a snap. The general cried out, drowning out Alexander’s own sharp cry of pain. By then Washington had come to his senses and drawn his pistol, firing at the redcoat who had held the gun to Hamilton’s head, the only one who still had a loaded gun. The minion dropped, and Alexander had broken his captor’s arm so that it hung uselessly next to him. 

His gun spent, and his arm in excruciating pain, the redcoat general could do nothing but watch as Washington grabbed Hamilton and pulled them away from the fighting, to the edge of the clearing. 

Washington’s men flocked around them, all yelling and hurrying about trying to reload their guns. Where the British had obviously been expecting this, none of his men had thought they’d be fighting today. Laurens rushed towards the pair, his eyes shining with worry. 

“Were either of you hit?” 

“No, he aimed for his own soldier,” Washington panted, still gripping Alexander close to him. He gave the boy a once over and discovered for the first time the amount of blood staining his uniform. “Hamilton the blood-”

“Not mine,” the boy gasped, his eye never leaving the progress on the field. “We need to get His Excellency to safety, they intend to either arrest or kill him.” As an afterthought, the boy added, “And I wouldn’t exactly be opposed to having this ordeal over and done with.” 

Laurens nodded frantically, wrenching them towards a cleared path. “If you run this path you should reach the camp within half-an-hour. We can hold them back long enough for that.” 

Hamilton nodded and before Washington could object he was off. It wasn’t long before Washington noticed Alexander was faltering. 

“Hamilton, stop!” The fact that Hamilton actually obeyed the command was a testament to how hurt he must be. “You’re injured, aren’t you?” 

The boy turned towards him, his abdomen slick in blood. It seeped through his uniform and onto the soldier’s hand, which was desperately clutching the wound. 

It was then that George remembered that the general had had a knife when Alexander had tried to escape him. 

“Sweet Mother of God, _Hamilton,_ why didn’t you say anything?” There was a lump forming in Washington’s throat, he desperately swallowed it and rushed to his boy. 

“We ne’, need to get you t’ s’fety,” Hamilton slurred in lieu of an answer. 

“Christ sakes, Alexander.” Washington was angry. How dare Alexander do this? He would not have this boy die because he was too damn loyal for his own bloody good. 

Hamilton’s legs buckled, but Washington was there to catch him; they had to get to safety before they could address any wounds. If his men couldn’t hold back the opposing soldiers and both he and Hamilton were caught, they’d both be killed for certain. 

Hamilton pushed at Washington, trying to get him away from his body. Whether he was descending into delirium or suggesting that Washington leave him, he didn’t know. Washington was sure that there was no force in Heaven or Hell that would make him do the latter. 

Still cradling the boy in his arm he ran, and ran, and ran. Blood was still seeping through Alexander’s fingers, blossoming over his stomach like a bed of petals. 

The general might have cried in relief when he saw the camp come into view, closer… closer… closer… 

but Hamilton was drifting farther… farther… farther…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ending is up for you to decide; I'm feeling optimistic so in my head Ima say lil Hammie survived. This was actually one of the first Tumblr one shots I did, I think it still holds up in terms of quality. (Hopefully) 
> 
> Tell me what you think! I love hearing from you all! (It's like I have friends lol jkjk I'm a theatre geek I have some friends out irl too) 
> 
> aLsO! I can't mention it on A03 so please consider going to my [Tumblr](https://accidentally-a-writer.tumblr.com/post/184055540584/ko-fi-page) and reading the post there. 
> 
> Other than that, as usual, I love all of y'all, I can't wait to see what I write next (eheheh) and I hope everyone has a lovely whatever time it is for you! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading this, I love and appreciate each and every one of you! Do not hesitate to leave a comment for me, I find them delicious and food for my creative muse. 
> 
> Also, [come scream at me on Tumblr.](https://accidentally-a-writer.tumblr.com)
> 
> Love to you all, and stay awesome! :D


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